Dead Calm
by Kris Blake
Summary: Set after DitF. Sookie once again finds herself held captive.


Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the Sookieverse, they of course belong to Charlaine Harris.

a/n: Obviously, the McCade brothers are my own creation. At this point, I have no idea where this story is going or how long it will take me to get there. However, it is set after Dead in the Family.

I do so hope you will enjoy and review!

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I woke in a cold, damp room. It was dark and felt unfamiliar. The smell of wet concrete and dank mold accosted my nose. There was another scent as well, one dark and sinister; copper with a hint of salt and rust.

I became aware of several things all at once. There was a layer of what smelled suspiciously like duct-tape covering my mouth, it was gonna hurt when that came off. The left side of my forehead felt as if I had been smacked with a two-by-four and it was wet and tacky. I hoped that was the only place the distinct coppery odor of blood was coming from. My wrists were bound together tightly behind the back of the chair I was tethered to. It was straight- backed and wooden (not built for comfort in my opinion) and very sturdy. I bent my fingertips in towards my wrists to feel what my bindings were made of. Rope. Could've been worse. My ankles were tied securely to the legs of the chair. I could only assume that they, too, were bound with rope. My body was cramped and aching as if I had been sitting in the same position for quite some time.

I briefly wondered just how long I had been unconscious. There was no hint of what time of day it was, there appeared to be no windows in my new surroundings. I craned my neck as far around to the left as it would go without snapping, willing my eyes to adjust to the darkness enough to get some bearings. No such luck. Just a whole lot of nothing. Then back around and to the right. More nothing. I could hear the faint drip of water behind me. From the right came the unmistakable sound of a scurrying mouse. Or a rat. Great; rats. I hate rats. On the bright side, maybe I could get him to chew through the ropes and set me free. I would, in return, name him Mickey and change my outlook on the whole rat populace. We would be best pals, my heroic rat and me.

My neck itched. I tucked my chin into my chest and rubbed my neck across the collar of my shirt. A loose strand of hair fell across my cheek and tickled the tip of my nose. I tossed my head around to the right, hoping the lock of hair would settle into a less annoying place. Then I giggled at myself over the absurdity of the situation. My giggle was muffled by the tape over my mouth. Here I was, abducted, tied up and locked away in a (please, forgive my theatrical flair) dungeon, quite obviously not of my own free will, probably in danger of losing more than just the feeling in my toes and I was annoyed with an itchy neck and afraid of a rat. Just proof of what a bizarre and truly strange person I am.

I needed to stretch in the worst way. Muscles I didn't even know I had were aching. I planted my feet firmly against the floor and gently began to ease myself forward onto them. The feeling really had gone out of my toes and it felt like a thousand little needle pricks as I let my weight shift onto the balls of my feet. Slowly, careful not to over-balance and send myself face first into the floor, I tried to straighten as much as my wooden prison would allow. The seat began to bite into the backs of my legs, so I stooped back over. I twisted slightly to the left, then to the right. I wasn't sure if the creaking was my body or the chair's, but a small amount of relief crept into my aching back and I took that as a good sign. Settling back into the seat of the chair, I rolled each of my ankles around until they popped and then rolled my neck around on my shoulders to loosen the tension there. It felt amazing. I moaned a sigh of relief that almost blocked out the faint but distinct sound of a set of jingling keys. So my assumption was _not_ unfounded! I _was_ locked away in a dungeon! Dun dun dunnnn.

The key jingling was coming from ahead of me. Sure that there must be a hint of light behind the door that was about to be opened, I focused my eyes on the direction the noise was coming from. Once again those traitorous ocular organs failed me. The door must have an excellent seal. I listened closely and heard the unmistakable scrape and click of a key opening a lock. My stomach curled in on itself as I anticipated the inevitable. I tucked my chin against my chest and closed my eyes hoping to feign sleep and buy some time. My mind was racing. How do I prepare for this? What do they want with me? Who are they? Why am I here?

In the space of a second I changed my mind. Suddenly, pretending to still be unconscious seemed cowardly. I wanted to be strong. I would face them head on, whoever they were. As the door slowly swept inward with much groaning and squeaking, a wedge of light flooded into the room allowing me to finally see a small portion of my cell. It was concrete. It was damp. It did look a little like a dungeon, but that was probably just my melodramatic side coming out again. I couldn't get any idea of how large the room was, but I could tell it was not small.

There was a line of chain-link, floor to ceiling cages running the length of the wall that had been illuminated. The ones I could see clearly were full of boxes and an array of different things, all of it covered in a thick layer of dust, clearly unused for a great deal of time. Bicycles, lots of the exercise equipment people always buy but seldom really use and a couple of big red toolboxes like my father had in his garage. I was wondering if I was ever going to see those toolboxes again when the shadow of a man appeared in the wedge of light.

My eyes darted back to the door and I watched as he stepped into the room. He flicked a switch on the wall behind him and I heard the familiar buzz of over-head florescent lights coming on before the actual light blinded me. I squeezed my eyes shut against the sting and waited for my pupils to dilate.

The sound of a heavy chair scraping against the concrete floor towards me forced me to brave the pain of the light again. I blinked rapidly to ease the strain. As my eyes adjusted I took in my visitor. He appeared to be quite tall, though it was slightly more difficult to judge from my seated position. In fact, he appeared to be quite large all over. Thick muscles strained against the confines of the T-shirt he wore. It stretched tightly across his broad chest. His arms were bigger around than my thighs and his shoulders... yikes. I wondered if he purposely bought his shirts a size or two to small. He wore faded jeans and cowboy boots.

The chair he had shoved over was sitting with its back facing towards me. He sank down onto it and laid his arms across the back. His eyes were fantastic; a piercing light blue color with a slightly darker ring around the outside of the iris. There were laugh lines at the corners of them and a thin scar that started at the corner of his right eye and arced downward a couple of inches to end at the center of his cheek. It wasn't ugly; in fact, it seemed to give his face just that much more rugged appeal. His nose fit his face perfectly; even the slightly crooked part in the middle that told me it had been broken at least once. His lips were formed into a crooked smile as he looked me over. I couldn't help but notice the dimple in his cheek and the cleft in his chin. His shoulder-length hair was dark, almost jet-black and was thick and wavy. I wasn't sure if the feeling in the pit of my stomach was induced by fear for my life or just the sheer beauty of the face before me.

I was ashamed of myself. What kind of moron hopes the man holding her hostage will let her loose and whisk her away to a deserted island? Only me.

That lock of hair had fallen across my face again and was once again tickling my nose. I gave my head a slight toss, again to no avail. The unruly strand settled back into its favorite place.

I watched as his hand slowly reached towards my face and brushed the lock of hair back behind my ear. He let his fingers slide slowly down the curve of my cheek and then took my chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. He raised my face slightly so that our eyes met and then flashed me the most stunning smile I had ever seen.

"I'm so pleased that you're awake. I was worried I might have hit you a bit too hard." His voice was deep and there was a hint of a southern accent in it. "I would like to apologize for that and for the terrible accommodations, but we can't risk exposure."

He searched my eyes for a brief moment. Again I felt that strange twinge in my stomach. And again I was ashamed of myself. Why wasn't I properly afraid? The very fact that he made no attempt to hide his face from me should terrify me. That would imply that he wasn't afraid I would be able to identify him in a line up. Obviously I was not going to be set free. So why were the butterflies in my stomach fluttering around like I was just a shy teenager facing my first crush as he asked me to the prom? This was absolutely absurd.

The lack of fear must have been evident in my eyes. I hoped he couldn't see what was there instead. Darn stupid, bizarre girl that I was. I felt a blush rise to my cheeks. What was wrong with me? He released my chin, but his gaze held my eyes in place. I don't think I could have torn myself away from those eyes even if I had wanted to.

"You gave me quite a fight. Your instincts are good. You put forth a very valiant effort for someone with no history of violence and no apparent training for self-defense. I had expected the job to be a cake-walk; but, the boss assures me you will be well worth the effort. He says you are quite special. Talented, even. That is a rare compliment from him. You must be much more than just a pretty face."

I shrugged my shoulders as if to say, "Eh, I'm no big deal, really." I was rewarded with another of those heart-breaking smiles. My stomach flip-flopped once more, much to my chagrin. If I did escape this, whatever _this _was, I was going to seriously think about checking myself into a mental hospital. I was beginning to understand the whole Stockholm syndrome thing.

"My name is Ian McCade, Ms. Stackhouse, and I'm sure you have some questions for me. If you will promise not to scream, I will remove that tape from your mouth. I think I'd like to get a closer look at those lips of yours anyhow. It seems a shame to hide them. Just give me a nod if you are agreeable. And please, don't make me hit you again. I sure would hate to bruise that sweet little face any more than it has already been. You are really quite breathtaking. I find myself intrigued by you."

Really? Really! All my life I have waited to hear a man speak to me so sweetly. Well, except for the whole being tied up and threatened with bodily harm part. But, I mean, he just called me hot like six ways from Sunday and his eyes were saying a whole lot more than that. Why? Why can't I just be a normal girl? And who in the heck was this guy?

I nodded my head at him and braced myself for the sting of "operation tape removal". I wasn't going to scream for help. I knew that would result in serious pain infliction and would not produce any kind of help whatsoever. What would be the point? I may not be college educated, but that doesn't make me stupid. Besides, I'm kind of partial to my face or at least to the lack of it being beaten and bloody. I clenched my jaw and prepared to bite my tongue; I was determined not to scream from the inevitable agony of adhesive removal. I prayed it would not also be skin removal.

Mr. Smoldering-eyes McCade reached out and took hold of one corner of the tape. "Sorry, darling. I know this isn't going to be pleasant." With that, he ripped the tape from my face with the one hand and then covered my mouth with the other. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt as much as I had imagined it would. I didn't even let loose a yelp of pain. I figured that was why he was covering my mouth, but as he didn't release it when he realized I wasn't going to scream I came to understand that he was holding it to dull the sting. The warmth of his hand was abating the pain. And that hand was seriously warm.

I sent up a silent prayer for forgiveness for my unbecoming behavior. I should be revolted by and completely and totally afraid of this man; yet, here I was, wishing he would remove his hand and replace it with his lips. Maybe he drugged me or something. That must be it. He must have given me some kind of "lust your captor" pill. It was working. Oh boy was it working.

"Is the sting gone?" he asked. I nodded. He pulled his hand away and once again rested his arms across the back of the chair. All his attention was focused on my lips. It was agonizing, this scrutiny. I felt the color rise to my cheeks and neck once again.

Without warning, tears welled up and spilled from my eyes. They were not tears of pain or fright, like one might expect from someone in my current and very serious predicament; rather, they were tears of a furious nature. I was angry with myself for having all these completely irrational responses. I was angry at him for having abducted me. I was even angrier at him for treating me so kindly and cruelly at the same time. My anger had always been hard-wired to my tear ducts. It was something that had often embarrassed me and, well, only caused me to cry all the harder.

Of course, my captor mistook the traitorous moisture for that of a more rational nature. He had the gall to look ashamed of himself. This of course, made me all the angrier and thus led to even more false weepiness. I looked away from him, mortified by my weakness. I didn't flinch when he reached out to take my chin in his hand and pull it to face him again. I hoped he saw the rage in my eyes. With all my will I shoved my emotions at him. I wanted him to know what I actually felt and not what he thought he saw.

"I take no joy in causing you pain, Ms. Stackhouse," he started. "As a matter of fact… I,"

This induced the most rational reaction I had had so far. I got ticked. Seriously ticked.

"You just hush your mouth, you big, lying a-hole!" I interrupted. "Why would I believe anything you say to me anyway? You've got me tied up like a criminal in some nasty old smelly basement and you look at me like you'd like to do things to me that I'm pretty sure I don't want to have done to me. You told me your name and you showed me your face, so it seems to me like you have no intentions of letting me go. At least not alive. So don't you sit there all high and mighty and tell me you don't want to hurt me. That you don't take pleasure in seeing me all helpless and scared.

"I don't know who you are. I have no idea what it is that you or "your boss" want with me. I can't even imagine what kind of "talent" he thinks I have, but I can assure you, whatever it is, he will never get to use it. You will have to kill me first, Mr. McCade. Whether or not you take pleasure in doing so is your own personal problem." And with that, I ran out of steam. I jerked my head back out of his hand. His touching me had become repulsive to me, thankfully. I seemed to have finally come to my senses.

He stared at me for a number of seconds and I met his gaze defiantly. Whatever the outcome of my outburst, I would not let myself regret it. I may be bizarre and abnormal, but I am not weak and I refuse to be a victim.

"You, Sookie Stackhouse, are quite a unique lady. As you pointed out, you are being held against your will. I regret that. Would that there was time, I would much rather have gone about this in a more… decent and pleasant manner. I don't appreciate being used as muscle even on people who undoubtedly deserve what they have coming. I get the feeling that you, however, deserve to be treated in a much more respectful manner."

He rose from the chair and began pacing back and forth in front of me, absently rubbing his hand across his jaw. I got the impression that he was warring with himself about the situation. As clueless as I was to what was going on and as much as I wanted to despise this man for what he had done to me so far, I got the sense that he was not a bad man at all. As he had pointed out earlier, I have good instincts. Okay, so the telepathy doesn't hurt either. I opened up my mind and reached into his, listening to see if he was sincere.

His mind was not like any other human mind I'd ever heard. His thoughts raced to quickly to pick up on anything solid. I got bits of images, mostly a lot of emotion, anger and fear, and just a few tiny words.

_he'll kill Jon… filthy bloodsucker… shoulda staked him years ago… _

He stopped pacing and faced me. I met his eye with just a bit of reluctance. His face was filled with emotion. I could see he wanted to say something more but was troubled by it. I waited patiently. It's not like I was going anywhere anyway.

The itch on my neck came back. This was frustrating. I tried to ignore it, really I did. But it was just too much. I tucked my chin into my chest and again rubbed my neck across the piping on my shirt. This, in turn, caused the freaking hair to fall across my face again. Then came the tickle, the subsequent head-toss-of-hair-removal and then the inevitable sigh of frustration at the lack of the hair moving. It was humiliating.

It probably would have reduced me to furious tears again had he not once again come to my rescue. He tucked the loose strand behind my ear and ran his knuckle across my jaw again.

He heaved a great sigh and looked away from me again. His eyes seemed to be searching the floor for something. He was studying it so hard I began to think maybe it held the answers to all the questions in the universe.

I decided enough was enough. One of us was going to have to speak. I guess he had come to the same conclusion at the same time because at that moment he looked at me and we both started speaking at the same time.

"Who's Jon and what vamp has him?" I asked.

"What do you know about Victor Madden?" Ian McCade questioned me.


End file.
